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CHAPTER 16. Nobody's Weakness

CHAPTER 5. Family Affairs | CHAPTER 6. The Father of the Marshalsea | CHAPTER 7. The Child of the Marshalsea | CHAPTER 8. The Lock | CHAPTER 9. Little Mother | CHAPTER 10. Containing the whole Science of Government | CHAPTER 11. Let Loose | CHAPTER 12. Bleeding Heart Yard | CHAPTER 13. Patriarchal | CHAPTER 14. Little Dorrit's Party |


 

The ti­me be­ing co­me for the re­ne­wal of his ac­qu­a­in­tan­ce with the Me­ag­les fa­mily, Clen­nam, pur­su­ant to con­t­ract ma­de bet­we­en him­self and Mr Me­ag­les wit­hin the pre­cincts of Ble­eding He­art Yard, tur­ned his fa­ce on a cer­ta­in Sa­tur­day to­wards Twic­ken­ham, whe­re Mr Me­ag­les had a cot­ta­ge-re­si­den­ce of his own. The we­at­her be­ing fi­ne and dry, and any En­g­lish ro­ad abo­un­ding in in­te­rest for him who had be­en so long away, he sent his va­li­se on by the co­ach, and set out to walk. A walk was in it­self a new enj­oy­ment to him, and one that had ra­rely di­ver­si­fi­ed his li­fe afar off.

He went by Ful­ham and Put­ney, for the ple­asu­re of strol­ling over the he­ath. It was bright and shi­ning the­re; and when he fo­und him­self so far on his ro­ad to Twic­ken­ham, he fo­und him­self a long way on his ro­ad to a num­ber of airi­er and less sub­s­tan­ti­al des­ti­na­ti­ons. They had ri­sen be­fo­re him fast, in the he­al­t­h­ful exer­ci­se and the ple­asant ro­ad. It is not easy to walk alo­ne in the co­untry wit­ho­ut mu­sing upon so­met­hing. And he had plenty of un­set­tled su­bj­ects to me­di­ta­te upon, tho­ugh he had be­en wal­king to the Land's End.

First, the­re was the su­bj­ect sel­dom ab­sent from his mind, the qu­es­ti­on, what he was to do hen­ce­forth in li­fe; to what oc­cu­pa­ti­on he sho­uld de­vo­te him­self, and in what di­rec­ti­on he had best se­ek it. He was far from rich, and every day of in­de­ci­si­on and inac­ti­on ma­de his in­he­ri­tan­ce a so­ur­ce of gre­ater an­xi­ety to him. As of­ten as he be­gan to con­si­der how to in­c­re­ase this in­he­ri­tan­ce, or to lay it by, so of­ten his mis­gi­ving that the­re was so­me one with an un­sa­tis­fi­ed cla­im upon his jus­ti­ce, re­tur­ned; and that alo­ne was a su­bj­ect to out­last the lon­gest walk. Aga­in, the­re was the su­bj­ect of his re­la­ti­ons with his mot­her, which we­re now upon an equ­ab­le and pe­ace­ful but ne­ver con­fi­den­ti­al fo­oting, and whom he saw se­ve­ral ti­mes a we­ek. Lit­tle Dor­rit was a le­ading and a con­s­tant su­bj­ect: for the cir­cum­s­tan­ces of his li­fe, uni­ted to tho­se of her own story, pre­sen­ted the lit­tle cre­atu­re to him as the only per­son bet­we­en whom and him­self the­re we­re ti­es of in­no­cent re­li­an­ce on one hand, and af­fec­ti­ona­te pro­tec­ti­on on the ot­her; ti­es of com­pas­si­on, res­pect, un­sel­fish in­te­rest, gra­ti­tu­de, and pity. Thin­king of her, and of the pos­si­bi­lity of her fat­her's re­le­ase from pri­son by the un­bar­ring hand of de­ath-the only chan­ge of cir­cum­s­tan­ce he co­uld fo­re­see that might enab­le him to be such a fri­end to her as he wis­hed to be, by al­te­ring her who­le man­ner of li­fe, smo­ot­hing her ro­ugh ro­ad, and gi­ving her a ho­me-he re­gar­ded her, in that per­s­pec­ti­ve, as his adop­ted da­ug­h­ter, his po­or child of the Mar­s­hal­sea hus­hed to rest. If the­re we­re a last su­bj­ect in his tho­ughts, and it lay to­wards Twic­ken­ham, its form was so in­de­fi­ni­te that it was lit­tle mo­re than the per­va­ding at­mos­p­he­re in which the­se ot­her su­bj­ects flo­ated be­fo­re him.

He had cros­sed the he­ath and was le­aving it be­hind when he ga­ined upon a fi­gu­re which had be­en in ad­van­ce of him for so­me ti­me, and which, as he ga­ined upon it, he tho­ught he knew. He de­ri­ved this im­p­res­si­on from so­met­hing in the turn of the he­ad, and in the fi­gu­re's ac­ti­on of con­si­de­ra­ti­on, as it went on at a suf­fi­ci­ently sturdy walk. But when the man-for it was a man's fi­gu­re-pus­hed his hat up at the back of his he­ad, and stop­ped to con­si­der so­me obj­ect be­fo­re him, he knew it to be Da­ni­el Doy­ce.

'How do you do, Mr Doy­ce?' sa­id Clen­nam, over­ta­king him. 'I am glad to see you aga­in, and in a he­al­t­hi­er pla­ce than the Cir­cum­lo­cu­ti­on Of­fi­ce.'

'Ha! Mr Me­ag­les's fri­end!' ex­c­la­imed that pub­lic cri­mi­nal, co­ming out of so­me men­tal com­bi­na­ti­ons he had be­en ma­king, and of­fe­ring his hand. 'I am glad to see you, sir. Will you ex­cu­se me if I for­get yo­ur na­me?'

'Readily. It's not a ce­leb­ra­ted na­me. It's not Bar­nac­le.' 'No, no,' sa­id Da­ni­el, la­ug­hing. 'And now I know what it is. It's Clen­nam. How do you do, Mr Clen­nam?'

'I ha­ve so­me ho­pe,' sa­id Ar­t­hur, as they wal­ked on to­get­her, 'that we may be go­ing to the sa­me pla­ce, Mr Doy­ce.'

'Meaning Twic­ken­ham?' re­tur­ned Da­ni­el. 'I am glad to he­ar it.'

They we­re so­on qu­ite in­ti­ma­te, and lig­h­te­ned the way with a va­ri­ety of con­ver­sa­ti­on. The in­ge­ni­o­us cul­p­rit was a man of gre­at mo­desty and go­od sen­se; and, tho­ugh a pla­in man, had be­en too much ac­cus­to­med to com­bi­ne what was ori­gi­nal and da­ring in con­cep­ti­on with what was pa­ti­ent and mi­nu­te in exe­cu­ti­on, to be by any me­ans an or­di­nary man. It was at first dif­fi­cult to le­ad him to spe­ak abo­ut him­self, and he put off Ar­t­hur's ad­van­ces in that di­rec­ti­on by ad­mit­ting slightly, oh yes, he had do­ne this, and he had do­ne that, and such a thing was of his ma­king, and such anot­her thing was his dis­co­very, but it was his tra­de, you see, his tra­de; un­til, as he gra­du­al­ly be­ca­me as­su­red that his com­pa­ni­on had a re­al in­te­rest in his ac­co­unt of him­self, he frankly yi­el­ded to it. Then it ap­pe­ared that he was the son of a nor­th-co­untry blac­k­s­mith, and had ori­gi­nal­ly be­en ap­pren­ti­ced by his wi­do­wed mot­her to a lock-ma­ker; that he had 'struck out a few lit­tle things' at the lock-ma­ker's, which had led to his be­ing re­le­ased from his in­den­tu­res with a pre­sent, which pre­sent had enab­led him to gra­tify his ar­dent wish to bind him­self to a wor­king en­gi­ne­er, un­der whom he had la­bo­ured hard, le­ar­ned hard, and li­ved hard, se­ven ye­ars. His ti­me be­ing out, he had 'wor­ked in the shop' at we­ekly wa­ges se­ven or eight ye­ars mo­re; and had then be­ta­ken him­self to the banks of the Clyde, whe­re he had stu­di­ed, and fi­led, and ham­me­red, and im­p­ro­ved his know­led­ge, the­ore­ti­cal and prac­ti­cal, for six or se­ven ye­ars mo­re. The­re he had had an of­fer to go to Lyons, which he had ac­cep­ted; and from Lyons had be­en en­ga­ged to go to Ger­many, and in Ger­many had had an of­fer to go to St Pe­ter­s­burg, and the­re had do­ne very well in­de­ed-ne­ver bet­ter. Ho­we­ver, he had na­tu­ral­ly felt a pre­fe­ren­ce for his own co­untry, and a wish to ga­in dis­tin­c­ti­on the­re, and to do wha­te­ver ser­vi­ce he co­uld do, the­re rat­her than el­sew­he­re. And so he had co­me ho­me. And so at ho­me he had es­tab­lis­hed him­self in bu­si­ness, and had in­ven­ted and exe­cu­ted, and wor­ked his way on, un­til, af­ter a do­zen ye­ars of con­s­tant su­it and ser­vi­ce, he had be­en en­rol­led in the Gre­at Bri­tish Le­gi­on of Ho­no­ur, the Le­gi­on of the Re­buf­fed of the Cir­cum­lo­cu­ti­on Of­fi­ce, and had be­en de­co­ra­ted with the Gre­at Bri­tish Or­der of Me­rit, the Or­der of the Di­sor­der of the Bar­nac­les and Stil­t­s­tal­kings.

'It is much to be reg­ret­ted,' sa­id Clen­nam, 'that you ever tur­ned yo­ur tho­ughts that way, Mr Doy­ce.'

'True, sir, true to a cer­ta­in ex­tent. But what is a man to do? if he has the mis­for­tu­ne to stri­ke out so­met­hing ser­vi­ce­ab­le to the na­ti­on, he must fol­low whe­re it le­ads him.' 'Hadn't he bet­ter let it go?' sa­id Clen­nam.

'He can't do it,' sa­id Doy­ce, sha­king his he­ad with a tho­ug­h­t­ful smi­le. 'It's not put in­to his he­ad to be bu­ri­ed. It's put in­to his he­ad to be ma­de use­ful. You hold yo­ur li­fe on the con­di­ti­on that to the last you shall strug­gle hard for it. Every man holds a dis­co­very on the sa­me terms.'

'That is to say,' sa­id Ar­t­hur, with a gro­wing ad­mi­ra­ti­on of his qu­i­et com­pa­ni­on, 'you are not fi­nal­ly dis­co­ura­ged even now?'

'I ha­ve no right to be, if I am,' re­tur­ned the ot­her. 'The thing is as true as it ever was.'

When they had wal­ked a lit­tle way in si­len­ce, Clen­nam, at on­ce to chan­ge the di­rect po­int of the­ir con­ver­sa­ti­on and not to chan­ge it too ab­ruptly, as­ked Mr Doy­ce if he had any par­t­ner in his bu­si­ness to re­li­eve him of a por­ti­on of its an­xi­eti­es?

'No,' he re­tur­ned, 'not at pre­sent. I had when I first en­te­red on it, and a go­od man he was. But he has be­en de­ad so­me ye­ars; and as I co­uld not easily ta­ke to the no­ti­on of anot­her when I lost him, I bo­ught his sha­re for myself and ha­ve go­ne on by myself ever sin­ce. And he­re's anot­her thing,' he sa­id, stop­ping for a mo­ment with a go­od-hu­mo­ured la­ugh in his eyes, and la­ying his clo­sed right hand, with its pe­cu­li­ar sup­ple­ness of thumb, on Clen­nam's arm, 'no in­ven­tor can be a man of bu­si­ness, you know.'

'No?' sa­id Clen­nam.

'Why, so the men of bu­si­ness say,' he an­s­we­red, re­su­ming the walk and la­ug­hing out­right. 'I don't know why we un­for­tu­na­te cre­atu­res sho­uld be sup­po­sed to want com­mon sen­se, but it is ge­ne­ral­ly ta­ken for gran­ted that we do. Even the best fri­end I ha­ve in the world, our ex­cel­lent fri­end over yon­der,' sa­id Doy­ce, nod­ding to­wards Twic­ken­ham, 'extends a sort of pro­tec­ti­on to me, don't you know, as a man not qu­ite ab­le to ta­ke ca­re of him­self?'

Arthur Clen­nam co­uld not help jo­ining in the go­od-hu­mo­ured la­ugh, for he re­cog­ni­sed the truth of the des­c­rip­ti­on.

'So I find that I must ha­ve a par­t­ner who is a man of bu­si­ness and not gu­ilty of any in­ven­ti­ons,' sa­id Da­ni­el Doy­ce, ta­king off his hat to pass his hand over his fo­re­he­ad, 'if it's only in de­fe­ren­ce to the cur­rent opi­ni­on, and to up­hold the cre­dit of the Works. I don't think he'll find that I ha­ve be­en very re­miss or con­fu­sed in my way of con­duc­ting them; but that's for him to say-who­ever he is-not for me.' 'You ha­ve not cho­sen him yet, then?'

'No, sir, no. I ha­ve only just co­me to a de­ci­si­on to ta­ke one. The fact is, the­re's mo­re to do than the­re used to be, and the Works are eno­ugh for me as I grow ol­der. What with the bo­oks and cor­res­pon­den­ce, and fo­re­ign jo­ur­neys for which a Prin­ci­pal is ne­ces­sary, I can't do all. I am go­ing to talk over the best way of ne­go­ti­ating the mat­ter, if I find a spa­re half-ho­ur bet­we­en this and Mon­day mor­ning, with my-my Nur­se and pro­tec­tor,' sa­id Doy­ce, with la­ug­hing eyes aga­in. 'He is a sa­ga­ci­o­us man in bu­si­ness, and has had a go­od ap­pren­ti­ces­hip to it.'

After this, they con­ver­sed on dif­fe­rent su­bj­ects un­til they ar­ri­ved at the­ir jo­ur­ney's end. A com­po­sed and unob­t­ru­si­ve self-sus­ta­in­ment was no­ti­ce­ab­le in Da­ni­el Doy­ce-a calm know­led­ge that what was true must re­ma­in true, in spi­te of all the Bar­nac­les in the fa­mily oce­an, and wo­uld be just the truth, and ne­it­her mo­re nor less when even that sea had run dry-which had a kind of gre­at­ness in it, tho­ugh not of the of­fi­ci­al qu­ality.

As he knew the ho­use well, he con­duc­ted Ar­t­hur to it by the way that sho­wed it to the best ad­van­ta­ge. It was a char­ming pla­ce (no­ne the wor­se for be­ing a lit­tle ec­cen­t­ric), on the ro­ad by the ri­ver, and just what the re­si­den­ce of the Me­ag­les fa­mily ought to be. It sto­od in a gar­den, no do­ubt as fresh and be­a­uti­ful in the May of the Ye­ar as Pet now was in the May of her li­fe; and it was de­fen­ded by a go­odly show of han­d­so­me tre­es and spre­ading ever­g­re­ens, as Pet was by Mr and Mrs Me­ag­les. It was ma­de out of an old brick ho­use, of which a part had be­en al­to­get­her pul­led down, and anot­her part had be­en chan­ged in­to the pre­sent cot­ta­ge; so the­re was a ha­le el­derly por­ti­on, to rep­re­sent Mr and Mrs Me­ag­les, and a yo­ung pic­tu­res­que, very pretty por­ti­on to rep­re­sent Pet. The­re was even the la­ter ad­di­ti­on of a con­ser­va­tory shel­te­ring it­self aga­inst it, un­cer­ta­in of hue in its de­ep-sta­ined glass, and in its mo­re tran­s­pa­rent por­ti­ons flas­hing to the sun's rays, now li­ke fi­re and now li­ke har­m­less wa­ter drops; which might ha­ve sto­od for Tat­tyco­ram. Wit­hin vi­ew was the pe­ace­ful ri­ver and the fer­ry-bo­at, to mo­ra­li­se to all the in­ma­tes sa­ying: Yo­ung or old, pas­si­ona­te or tran­qu­il, cha­fing or con­tent, you, thus runs the cur­rent al­ways. Let the he­art swell in­to what dis­cord it will, thus plays the rip­pling wa­ter on the prow of the fer­ry-bo­at ever the sa­me tu­ne. Ye­ar af­ter ye­ar, so much al­lo­wan­ce for the drif­ting of the bo­at, so many mi­les an ho­ur the flo­wing of the stre­am, he­re the rus­hes, the­re the li­li­es, not­hing un­cer­ta­in or un­qu­i­et, upon this ro­ad that ste­adily runs away; whi­le you, upon yo­ur flo­wing ro­ad of ti­me, are so cap­ri­ci­o­us and dis­t­rac­ted.

The bell at the ga­te had scar­cely so­un­ded when Mr Me­ag­les ca­me out to re­ce­ive them. Mr Me­ag­les had scar­cely co­me out, when Mrs Me­ag­les ca­me out. Mrs Me­ag­les had scar­cely co­me out, when Pet ca­me out. Pet scar­cely had co­me out, when Tat­tyco­ram ca­me out. Ne­ver had vi­si­tors a mo­re hos­pi­tab­le re­cep­ti­on.

'Here we are, you see,' sa­id Mr Me­ag­les, 'bo­xed up, Mr Clen­nam, wit­hin our own ho­me-li­mits, as if we we­re ne­ver go­ing to ex­pand-that is, tra­vel-aga­in. Not li­ke Mar­se­il­les, eh? No al­lon­ging and mar­s­hon­ging he­re!'

'A dif­fe­rent kind of be­a­uty, in­de­ed!' sa­id Clen­nam, lo­oking abo­ut him.

'But, Lord bless me!' cri­ed Mr Me­ag­les, rub­bing his hands with a re­lish, 'it was an un­com­monly ple­asant thing be­ing in qu­aran­ti­ne, wasn't it? Do you know, I ha­ve of­ten wis­hed myself back aga­in? We we­re a ca­pi­tal party.'

This was Mr Me­ag­les's in­va­ri­ab­le ha­bit. Al­ways to obj­ect to ever­y­t­hing whi­le he was tra­vel­ling, and al­ways to want to get back to it when he was not tra­vel­ling.

'If it was sum­mer-ti­me,' sa­id Mr Me­ag­les, 'which I wish it was on yo­ur ac­co­unt, and in or­der that you might see the pla­ce at its best, you wo­uld hardly be ab­le to he­ar yo­ur­self spe­ak for birds. Be­ing prac­ti­cal pe­op­le, we ne­ver al­low an­y­body to sca­re the birds; and the birds, be­ing prac­ti­cal pe­op­le too, co­me abo­ut us in myri­ads. We are de­lig­h­ted to see you, Clen­nam (if you'll al­low me, I shall drop the Mis­ter); I he­ar­tily as­su­re you, we are de­lig­h­ted.'

'I ha­ve not had so ple­asant a gre­eting,' sa­id Clen­nam-then he re­cal­led what Lit­tle Dor­rit had sa­id to him in his own ro­om, and fa­it­h­ful­ly ad­ded 'except on­ce-sin­ce we last wal­ked to and fro, lo­oking down at the Me­di­ter­ra­ne­an.'

'Ah!' re­tur­ned Mr Me­ag­les. 'So­met­hing li­ke a lo­ok out, that was, wasn't it? I don't want a mi­li­tary go­ver­n­ment, but I sho­uldn't mind a lit­tle al­lon­ging and mar­s­hon­ging-just a dash of it-in this ne­ig­h­bo­ur­ho­od so­me­ti­mes. It's De­vi­lish still.'

Bestowing this eulo­gi­um on the re­ti­red cha­rac­ter of his ret­re­at with a du­bi­o­us sha­ke of the he­ad, Mr Me­ag­les led the way in­to the ho­use. It was just lar­ge eno­ugh, and no mo­re; was as pretty wit­hin as it was wit­ho­ut, and was per­fectly well-ar­ran­ged and com­for­tab­le.

Some tra­ces of the mig­ra­tory ha­bits of the fa­mily we­re to be ob­ser­ved in the co­ve­red fra­mes and fur­ni­tu­re, and wrap­ped-up han­gings; but it was easy to see that it was one of Mr Me­ag­les's whims to ha­ve the cot­ta­ge al­ways kept, in the­ir ab­sen­ce, as if they we­re al­ways co­ming back the day af­ter to-mor­row. Of ar­tic­les col­lec­ted on his va­ri­o­us ex­pe­di­ti­ons, the­re was such a vast mis­cel­lany that it was li­ke the dwel­ling of an ami­ab­le Cor­sa­ir. The­re we­re an­ti­qu­iti­es from Cen­t­ral Italy, ma­de by the best mo­dern ho­uses in that de­par­t­ment of in­dustry; bits of mummy from Egypt (and per­haps Bir­min­g­ham); mo­del gon­do­las from Ve­ni­ce; mo­del vil­la­ges from Swit­zer­land; mor­sels of tes­se­la­ted pa­ve­ment from Her­cu­la­ne­um and Pom­pe­ii, li­ke pet­ri­fi­ed min­ced ve­al; as­hes out of tombs, and la­va out of Ve­su­vi­us; Spa­nish fans, Spez­zi­an straw hats, Mo­orish slip­pers, Tus­can ha­ir­pins, Car­ra­ra scul­p­tu­re, Tras­ta­ve­ri­ni scar­ves, Ge­no­ese vel­vets and fi­lig­ree, Ne­apo­li­tan co­ral, Ro­man ca­me­os, Ge­ne­va jewel­lery, Arab lan­terns, ro­sa­ri­es blest all ro­und by the Po­pe him­self, and an in­fi­ni­te va­ri­ety of lum­ber. The­re we­re vi­ews, li­ke and un­li­ke, of a mul­ti­tu­de of pla­ces; and the­re was one lit­tle pic­tu­re-ro­om de­vo­ted to a few of the re­gu­lar sticky old Sa­ints, with si­news li­ke whip­cord, ha­ir li­ke Nep­tu­ne's, wrin­k­les li­ke tat­to­o­ing, and such co­ats of var­nish that every holy per­so­na­ge ser­ved for a fly-trap, and be­ca­me what is now cal­led in the vul­gar ton­gue a Cat­ch-em-ali­ve O. Of the­se pic­to­ri­al ac­qu­isi­ti­ons Mr Me­ag­les spo­ke in the usu­al man­ner. He was no jud­ge, he sa­id, ex­cept of what ple­ased him­self; he had pic­ked them up, dirt-che­ap, and pe­op­le had con­si­de­red them rat­her fi­ne. One man, who at any ra­te ought to know so­met­hing of the su­bj­ect, had dec­la­red that 'Sa­ge, Re­ading' (a spe­ci­al­ly oily old gen­t­le­man in a blan­ket, with a swan's-down tip­pet for a be­ard, and a web of cracks all over him li­ke rich pie-crust), to be a fi­ne Gu­er­ci­no. As for Se­bas­ti­an del Pi­om­bo the­re, you wo­uld jud­ge for yo­ur­self; if it we­re not his la­ter man­ner, the qu­es­ti­on was, Who was it? Ti­ti­an, that might or might not be-per­haps he had only to­uc­hed it. Da­ni­el Doy­ce sa­id per­haps he hadn't to­uc­hed it, but Mr Me­ag­les rat­her dec­li­ned to over­he­ar the re­mark.

When he had shown all his spo­ils, Mr Me­ag­les to­ok them in­to his own snug ro­om over­lo­oking the lawn, which was fit­ted up in part li­ke a dres­sing-ro­om and in part li­ke an of­fi­ce, and in which, upon a kind of co­un­ter-desk, we­re a pa­ir of brass sca­les for we­ig­hing gold, and a sco­op for sho­vel­ling out mo­ney.

'Here they are, you see,' sa­id Mr Me­ag­les. 'I sto­od be­hind the­se two ar­tic­les fi­ve-and-thirty ye­ars run­ning, when I no mo­re tho­ught of gad­ding abo­ut than I now think of-sta­ying at ho­me. When I left the Bank for go­od, I as­ked for them, and bro­ught them away with me.

I men­ti­on it at on­ce, or you might sup­po­se that I sit in my co­un­ting-ho­use (as Pet says I do), li­ke the king in the po­em of the fo­ur-and-twenty blac­k­birds, co­un­ting out my mo­ney.'

Clennam's eyes had stra­yed to a na­tu­ral pic­tu­re on the wall, of two pretty lit­tle girls with the­ir arms en­t­wi­ned. 'Yes, Clen­nam,' sa­id Mr Me­ag­les, in a lo­wer vo­ice. 'The­re they both are. It was ta­ken so­me se­ven­te­en ye­ars ago. As I of­ten say to Mot­her, they we­re ba­bi­es then.'

'Their na­mes?' sa­id Ar­t­hur.

'Ah, to be su­re! You ha­ve ne­ver he­ard any na­me but Pet. Pet's na­me is Min­nie; her sis­ter's Lil­lie.'

'Should you ha­ve known, Mr Clen­nam, that one of them was me­ant for me?' as­ked Pet her­self, now stan­ding in the do­or­way.

'I might ha­ve tho­ught that both of them we­re me­ant for you, both are still so li­ke you. In­de­ed,' sa­id Clen­nam, glan­cing from the fa­ir ori­gi­nal to the pic­tu­re and back, 'I can­not even now say which is not yo­ur por­t­ra­it.' 'D'ye he­ar that, Mot­her?' cri­ed Mr Me­ag­les to his wi­fe, who had fol­lo­wed her da­ug­h­ter. 'It's al­ways the sa­me, Clen­nam; no­body can de­ci­de. The child to yo­ur left is Pet.'

The pic­tu­re hap­pe­ned to be ne­ar a lo­oking-glass. As Ar­t­hur lo­oked at it aga­in, he saw, by the ref­lec­ti­on of the mir­ror, Tat­tyco­ram stop in pas­sing out­si­de the do­or, lis­ten to what was go­ing on, and pass away with an angry and con­tem­p­tu­o­us frown upon her fa­ce, that chan­ged its be­a­uty in­to ug­li­ness.

'But co­me!' sa­id Mr Me­ag­les. 'You ha­ve had a long walk, and will be glad to get yo­ur bo­ots off. As to Da­ni­el he­re, I sup­po­se he'd ne­ver think of ta­king his bo­ots off, un­less we sho­wed him a bo­ot-jack.'

'Why not?' as­ked Da­ni­el, with a sig­ni­fi­cant smi­le at Clen­nam.

'Oh! You ha­ve so many things to think abo­ut,' re­tur­ned Mr Me­ag­les, clap­ping him on the sho­ul­der, as if his we­ak­ness must not be left to it­self on any ac­co­unt. 'Fi­gu­res, and whe­els, and cogs, and le­vers, and screws, and cylin­ders, and a tho­usand things.'

'In my cal­ling,' sa­id Da­ni­el, amu­sed, 'the gre­ater usu­al­ly in­c­lu­des the less. But ne­ver mind, ne­ver mind! Wha­te­ver ple­ases you, ple­ases me.'

Clennam co­uld not help spe­cu­la­ting, as he se­ated him­self in his ro­om by the fi­re, whet­her the­re might be in the bre­ast of this ho­nest, af­fec­ti­ona­te, and cor­di­al Mr Me­ag­les, any mic­ros­co­pic por­ti­on of the mus­tard-se­ed that had sprung up in­to the gre­at tree of the Cir­cum­lo­cu­ti­on Of­fi­ce. His cu­ri­o­us sen­se of a ge­ne­ral su­pe­ri­ority to Da­ni­el Doy­ce, which se­emed to be fo­un­ded, not so much on an­y­t­hing in Doy­ce's per­so­nal cha­rac­ter as on the me­re fact of his be­ing an ori­gi­na­tor and a man out of the be­aten track of ot­her men, sug­ges­ted the idea. It might ha­ve oc­cu­pi­ed him un­til he went down to din­ner an ho­ur af­ter­wards, if he had not had anot­her qu­es­ti­on to con­si­der, which had be­en in his mind so long ago as be­fo­re he was in qu­aran­ti­ne at Mar­se­il­les, and which had now re­tur­ned to it, and was very ur­gent with it. No less a qu­es­ti­on than this: Whet­her he sho­uld al­low him­self to fall in lo­ve with Pet?

He was twi­ce her age. (He chan­ged the leg he had cros­sed over the ot­her, and tri­ed the cal­cu­la­ti­on aga­in, but co­uld not bring out the to­tal at less.) He was twi­ce her age. Well! He was yo­ung in ap­pe­aran­ce, yo­ung in he­alth and strength, yo­ung in he­art. A man was cer­ta­inly not old at forty; and many men we­re not in cir­cum­s­tan­ces to marry, or did not marry, un­til they had at­ta­ined that ti­me of li­fe. On the ot­her hand, the qu­es­ti­on was, not what he tho­ught of the po­int, but what she tho­ught of it.

He be­li­eved that Mr Me­ag­les was dis­po­sed to en­ter­ta­in a ri­pe re­gard for him, and he knew that he had a sin­ce­re re­gard for Mr Me­ag­les and his go­od wi­fe. He co­uld fo­re­see that to re­lin­qu­ish this be­a­uti­ful only child, of whom they we­re so fond, to any hus­band, wo­uld be a tri­al of the­ir lo­ve which per­haps they ne­ver yet had had the for­ti­tu­de to con­tem­p­la­te. But the mo­re be­a­uti­ful and win­ning and char­ming she, the ne­arer they must al­ways be to the ne­ces­sity of ap­pro­ac­hing it. And why not in his fa­vo­ur, as well as in anot­her's?

When he had got so far, it ca­me aga­in in­to his he­ad that the qu­es­ti­on was, not what they tho­ught of it, but what she tho­ught of it.

Arthur Clen­nam was a re­ti­ring man, with a sen­se of many de­fi­ci­en­ci­es; and he so exal­ted the me­rits of the be­a­uti­ful Min­nie in his mind, and dep­res­sed his own, that when he pin­ned him­self to this po­int, his ho­pes be­gan to fa­il him. He ca­me to the fi­nal re­so­lu­ti­on, as he ma­de him­self re­ady for din­ner, that he wo­uld not al­low him­self to fall in lo­ve with Pet.

There we­re only fi­ve, at a ro­und tab­le, and it was very ple­asant in­de­ed. They had so many pla­ces and pe­op­le to re­call, and they we­re all so easy and che­er­ful to­get­her (Da­ni­el Doy­ce eit­her sit­ting out li­ke an amu­sed spec­ta­tor at cards, or co­ming in with so­me shrewd lit­tle ex­pe­ri­en­ces of his own, when it hap­pe­ned to be to the pur­po­se), that they might ha­ve be­en to­get­her twenty ti­mes, and not ha­ve known so much of one anot­her.

'And Miss Wa­de,' sa­id Mr Me­ag­les, af­ter they had re­cal­led a num­ber of fel­low-tra­vel­lers. 'Has an­y­body se­en Miss Wa­de?'

'I ha­ve,' sa­id Tat­tyco­ram.

She had bro­ught a lit­tle man­t­le which her yo­ung mis­t­ress had sent for, and was ben­ding over her, put­ting it on, when she lif­ted up her dark eyes and ma­de this unex­pec­ted an­s­wer.

'Tatty!' her yo­ung mis­t­ress ex­c­la­imed. 'You se­en Miss Wa­de?-where?'

'Here, miss,' sa­id Tat­tyco­ram.

'How?'

An im­pa­ti­ent glan­ce from Tat­tyco­ram se­emed, as Clen­nam saw it, to an­s­wer 'With my eyes!' But her only an­s­wer in words was: 'I met her ne­ar the church.'

'What was she do­ing the­re I won­der!' sa­id Mr Me­ag­les. 'Not go­ing to it, I sho­uld think.'

'She had writ­ten to me first,' sa­id Tat­tyco­ram.

'Oh, Tatty!' mur­mu­red her mis­t­ress, 'ta­ke yo­ur hands away. I fe­el as if so­me one el­se was to­uc­hing me!'

She sa­id it in a qu­ick in­vo­lun­tary way, but half play­ful­ly, and not mo­re pe­tu­lantly or di­sag­re­e­ably than a fa­vo­uri­te child might ha­ve do­ne, who la­ug­hed next mo­ment. Tat­tyco­ram set her full red lips to­get­her, and cros­sed her arms upon her bo­som. 'Did you wish to know, sir,' she sa­id, lo­oking at Mr Me­ag­les, 'what Miss Wa­de wro­te to me abo­ut?'

'Well, Tat­tyco­ram,' re­tur­ned Mr Me­ag­les, 'sin­ce you ask the qu­es­ti­on, and we are all fri­ends he­re, per­haps you may as well men­ti­on it, if you are so in­c­li­ned.'

'She knew, when we we­re tra­vel­ling, whe­re you li­ved,' sa­id Tat­tyco­ram, 'and she had se­en me not qu­ite-not qu­ite-'

'Not qu­ite in a go­od tem­per, Tat­tyco­ram?' sug­ges­ted Mr Me­ag­les, sha­king his he­ad at the dark eyes with a qu­i­et ca­uti­on. 'Ta­ke a lit­tle ti­me-co­unt fi­ve-and-twenty, Tat­tyco­ram.'

She pres­sed her lips to­get­her aga­in, and to­ok a long de­ep bre­ath.

'So she wro­te to me to say that if I ever felt myself hurt,' she lo­oked down at her yo­ung mis­t­ress, 'or fo­und myself wor­ri­ed,' she lo­oked down at her aga­in, 'I might go to her, and be con­si­de­ra­tely tre­ated. I was to think of it, and co­uld spe­ak to her by the church. So I went the­re to thank her.'

'Tatty,' sa­id her yo­ung mis­t­ress, put­ting her hand up over her sho­ul­der that the ot­her might ta­ke it, 'Miss Wa­de al­most frig­h­te­ned me when we par­ted, and I scar­cely li­ke to think of her just now as ha­ving be­en so ne­ar me wit­ho­ut my kno­wing it. Tatty de­ar!'

Tatty sto­od for a mo­ment, im­mo­vab­le.

'Hey?' cri­ed Mr Me­ag­les. 'Co­unt anot­her fi­ve-and-twenty, Tat­tyco­ram.'

She might ha­ve co­un­ted a do­zen, when she bent and put her lips to the ca­res­sing hand. It pat­ted her che­ek, as it to­uc­hed the ow­ner's be­a­uti­ful curls, and Tat­tyco­ram went away.

'Now the­re,' sa­id Mr Me­ag­les softly, as he ga­ve a turn to the dumb-wa­iter on his right hand to twirl the su­gar to­wards him­self. 'The­re's a girl who might be lost and ru­ined, if she wasn't among prac­ti­cal pe­op­le. Mot­her and I know, so­lely from be­ing prac­ti­cal, that the­re are ti­mes when that girl's who­le na­tu­re se­ems to ro­ug­hen it­self aga­inst se­e­ing us so bo­und up in Pet. No fat­her and mot­her we­re bo­und up in her, po­or so­ul. I don't li­ke to think of the way in which that un­for­tu­na­te child, with all that pas­si­on and pro­test in her, fe­els when she he­ars the Fifth Com­man­d­ment on a Sun­day. I am al­ways in­c­li­ned to call out, Church, Co­unt fi­ve-and-twenty, Tat­tyco­ram.'

Besides his dumb-wa­iter, Mr Me­ag­les had two ot­her not dumb wa­iters in the per­sons of two par­lo­ur-ma­ids with rosy fa­ces and bright eyes, who we­re a highly or­na­men­tal part of the tab­le de­co­ra­ti­on. 'And why not, you see?' sa­id Mr Me­ag­les on this he­ad. 'As I al­ways say to Mot­her, why not ha­ve so­met­hing pretty to lo­ok at, if you ha­ve an­y­t­hing at all?' A cer­ta­in Mrs Tic­kit, who was Co­ok and Ho­use­ke­eper when the fa­mily we­re at ho­me, and Ho­use­ke­eper only when the fa­mily we­re away, com­p­le­ted the es­tab­lis­h­ment. Mr Me­ag­les reg­ret­ted that the na­tu­re of the du­ti­es in which she was en­ga­ged, ren­de­red Mrs Tic­kit un­p­re­sen­tab­le at pre­sent, but ho­ped to in­t­ro­du­ce her to the new vi­si­tor to-mor­row. She was an im­por­tant part of the Cot­ta­ge, he sa­id, and all his fri­ends knew her. That was her pic­tu­re up in the cor­ner. When they went away, she al­ways put on the silk-gown and the jet-black row of curls rep­re­sen­ted in that por­t­ra­it (her ha­ir was red­dish-grey in the kit­c­hen), es­tab­lis­hed her­self in the bre­ak­fast-ro­om, put her spec­tac­les bet­we­en two par­ti­cu­lar le­aves of Doc­tor Buc­han's Do­mes­tic Me­di­ci­ne, and sat lo­oking over the blind all day un­til they ca­me back aga­in. It was sup­po­sed that no per­su­asi­on co­uld be in­ven­ted which wo­uld in­du­ce Mrs Tic­kit to aban­don her post at the blind, ho­we­ver long the­ir ab­sen­ce, or to dis­pen­se with the at­ten­dan­ce of Dr Buc­han; the lu­cub­ra­ti­ons of which le­ar­ned prac­ti­ti­oner, Mr Me­ag­les im­p­li­citly be­li­eved she had ne­ver yet con­sul­ted to the ex­tent of one word in her li­fe.

In the eve­ning they pla­yed an old-fas­hi­oned rub­ber; and Pet sat lo­oking over her fat­her's hand, or sin­ging to her­self by fits and starts at the pi­ano. She was a spo­ilt child; but how co­uld she be ot­her­wi­se? Who co­uld be much with so pli­ab­le and be­a­uti­ful a cre­atu­re, and not yi­eld to her en­de­aring in­f­lu­en­ce? Who co­uld pass an eve­ning in the ho­use, and not lo­ve her for the gra­ce and charm of her very pre­sen­ce in the ro­om? This was Clen­nam's ref­lec­ti­on, not­wit­h­s­tan­ding the fi­nal con­c­lu­si­on at which he had ar­ri­ved up-sta­irs.

In ma­king it, he re­vo­ked. 'Why, what are you thin­king of, my go­od sir?' as­ked the as­to­nis­hed Mr Me­ag­les, who was his par­t­ner.

'I beg yo­ur par­don. Not­hing,' re­tur­ned Clen­nam.

'Think of so­met­hing, next ti­me; that's a de­ar fel­low,' sa­id Mr Me­ag­les.

Pet la­ug­hingly be­li­eved he had be­en thin­king of Miss Wa­de.

'Why of Miss Wa­de, Pet?' as­ked her fat­her.

'Why, in­de­ed!' sa­id Ar­t­hur Clen­nam.

Pet co­lo­ured a lit­tle, and went to the pi­ano aga­in.

As they bro­ke up for the night, Ar­t­hur over­he­ard Doy­ce ask his host if he co­uld gi­ve him half an ho­ur's con­ver­sa­ti­on be­fo­re bre­ak­fast in the mor­ning? The host rep­l­ying wil­lingly, Ar­t­hur lin­ge­red be­hind a mo­ment, ha­ving his own word to add to that to­pic.

'Mr Me­ag­les,' he sa­id, on the­ir be­ing left alo­ne, 'do you re­mem­ber when you ad­vi­sed me to go stra­ight to Lon­don?'

'Perfectly well.' 'And when you ga­ve me so­me ot­her go­od ad­vi­ce which I ne­eded at that ti­me?'

'I won't say what it was worth,' an­s­we­red Mr Me­ag­les: 'but of co­ur­se I re­mem­ber our be­ing very ple­asant and con­fi­den­ti­al to­get­her.'

'I ha­ve ac­ted on yo­ur ad­vi­ce; and ha­ving di­sem­bar­ras­sed myself of an oc­cu­pa­ti­on that was pa­in­ful to me for many re­asons, wish to de­vo­te myself and what me­ans I ha­ve, to anot­her pur­su­it.'

'Right! You can't do it too so­on,' sa­id Mr Me­ag­les.

'Now, as I ca­me down to-day, I fo­und that yo­ur fri­end, Mr Doy­ce, is lo­oking for a par­t­ner in his bu­si­ness-not a par­t­ner in his mec­ha­ni­cal know­led­ge, but in the ways and me­ans of tur­ning the bu­si­ness ari­sing from it to the best ac­co­unt.'

'Just so,' sa­id Mr Me­ag­les, with his hands in his poc­kets, and with the old bu­si­ness ex­p­res­si­on of fa­ce that had be­lon­ged to the sca­les and sco­op.

'Mr Doy­ce men­ti­oned in­ci­den­tal­ly, in the co­ur­se of our con­ver­sa­ti­on, that he was go­ing to ta­ke yo­ur va­lu­ab­le ad­vi­ce on the su­bj­ect of fin­ding such a par­t­ner. If you sho­uld think our vi­ews and op­por­tu­ni­ti­es at all li­kely to co­in­ci­de, per­haps you will let him know my ava­ilab­le po­si­ti­on. I spe­ak, of co­ur­se, in ig­no­ran­ce of the de­ta­ils, and they may be un­su­itab­le on both si­des.'

'No do­ubt, no do­ubt,' sa­id Mr Me­ag­les, with the ca­uti­on be­lon­ging to the sca­les and sco­op.

'But they will be a qu­es­ti­on of fi­gu­res and ac­co­unts-'

'Just so, just so,' sa­id Mr Me­ag­les, with arit­h­me­ti­cal so­li­dity be­lon­ging to the sca­les and sco­op.

'- And I shall be glad to en­ter in­to the su­bj­ect, pro­vi­ded Mr Doy­ce res­ponds, and you think well of it. If you will at pre­sent, the­re­fo­re, al­low me to pla­ce it in yo­ur hands, you will much ob­li­ge me.'

'Clennam, I ac­cept the trust with re­adi­ness,' sa­id Mr Me­ag­les. 'And wit­ho­ut an­ti­ci­pa­ting any of the po­ints which you, as a man of bu­si­ness, ha­ve of co­ur­se re­ser­ved, I am free to say to you that I think so­met­hing may co­me of this. Of one thing you may be per­fectly cer­ta­in. Da­ni­el is an ho­nest man.'

'I am so su­re of it that I ha­ve promptly ma­de up my mind to spe­ak to you.' 'You must gu­ide him, you know; you must ste­er him; you must di­rect him; he is one of a crot­c­hety sort,' sa­id Mr Me­ag­les, evi­dently me­aning not­hing mo­re than that he did new things and went new ways; 'but he is as ho­nest as the sun, and so go­od night!' Clen­nam went back to his ro­om, sat down aga­in be­fo­re his fi­re, and ma­de up his mind that he was glad he had re­sol­ved not to fall in lo­ve with Pet. She was so be­a­uti­ful, so ami­ab­le, so apt to re­ce­ive any true im­p­res­si­on gi­ven to her gen­t­le na­tu­re and her in­no­cent he­art, and ma­ke the man who sho­uld be so happy as to com­mu­ni­ca­te it, the most for­tu­na­te and en­vi­ab­le of all men, that he was very glad in­de­ed he had co­me to that con­c­lu­si­on.

But, as this might ha­ve be­en a re­ason for co­ming to the op­po­si­te con­c­lu­si­on, he fol­lo­wed out the the­me aga­in a lit­tle way in his mind; to jus­tify him­self, per­haps.

'Suppose that a man,' so his tho­ughts ran, 'who had be­en of age so­me twenty ye­ars or so; who was a dif­fi­dent man, from the cir­cum­s­tan­ces of his yo­uth; who was rat­her a gra­ve man, from the te­nor of his li­fe; who knew him­self to be de­fi­ci­ent in many lit­tle en­ga­ging qu­ali­ti­es which he ad­mi­red in ot­hers, from ha­ving be­en long in a dis­tant re­gi­on, with not­hing sof­te­ning ne­ar him; who had no kind sis­ters to pre­sent to her; who had no con­ge­ni­al ho­me to ma­ke her known in; who was a stran­ger in the land; who had not a for­tu­ne to com­pen­sa­te, in any me­asu­re, for the­se de­fects; who had not­hing in his fa­vo­ur but his ho­nest lo­ve and his ge­ne­ral wish to do rig­ht-sup­po­se such a man we­re to co­me to this ho­use, and we­re to yi­eld to the cap­ti­va­ti­on of this char­ming girl, and we­re to per­su­ade him­self that he co­uld ho­pe to win her; what a we­ak­ness it wo­uld be!'

He softly ope­ned his win­dow, and lo­oked out upon the se­re­ne ri­ver. Ye­ar af­ter ye­ar so much al­lo­wan­ce for the drif­ting of the fer­ry-bo­at, so many mi­les an ho­ur the flo­wing of the stre­am, he­re the rus­hes, the­re the li­li­es, not­hing un­cer­ta­in or un­qu­i­et.

Why sho­uld he be ve­xed or so­re at he­art? It was not his we­ak­ness that he had ima­gi­ned. It was no­body's, no­body's wit­hin his know­led­ge; why sho­uld it tro­ub­le him? And yet it did tro­ub­le him. And he tho­ug­ht-who has not tho­ught for a mo­ment, so­me­ti­mes?-that it might be bet­ter to flow away mo­no­to­no­usly, li­ke the ri­ver, and to com­po­und for its in­sen­si­bi­lity to hap­pi­ness with its in­sen­si­bi­lity to pa­in.

 


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CHAPTER 15. Mrs Flintwinch has another Dream| CHAPTER 17. Nobody's Rival

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